Chapter Text
She couldn’t believe she was running away from Death Eaters in the Forbidden Forest with arrogant arsehole extraordinaire, Draco Malfoy, of all people.
Despite being unable to stand the sight of him, she realised he wasn’t a true villain—especially after he’d Stunned two masked miscreants who had been too close on her tail. Pettiness aside, there was no time to ruminate over the wisdom of letting him follow her deep into the darkness of these woods. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
“Where are you going?” she hissed when she saw him trudging through the brambles, deeper into the forest. “We have to go back and help the others!”
“You can go back. I’m getting the fuck out of here,” he spat. “Nothing but misery back there. You’re welcome to it.”
“Should’ve known you were a coward,” she sneered.
“So what if I am? What good has bravery ever brought me?” He laughed hysterically, and she thought he was losing his mind. Trauma, perhaps. “Go and chase your guts and glory. Or fucking die. Doesn’t mean anything to me. Goodbye, Granger.”
She watched as he walked away, deeper into the malevolent shadows, exposed to the danger of magical creatures with unknown intentions. Was he stupid or brave? Brave enough to walk away?
Why was she fighting this war anyway? Guts and glory, indeed. Why did teenagers have to fight? Weren’t there any capable adults in the Wizarding World?
How was she supposed to get back to the castle by herself? What if the Death Eaters were waiting at the borders of the woods?
“Wait!” she called out. He stopped mid-stride and turned around. She motioned for him to wait as she manoeuvred nimbly between the bushes and the tree roots jutting out of the ground.
“What now?” he asked belligerently. Despite his tone, he still waited for her. He could’ve just fucked off, but he didn’t.
“I’ll follow you,” she said.
“Why the hell would you want to do that?” he asked, incredulous.
“Uhh—safety in numbers,” she provided, though the excuse sounded ridiculous even to her own ears.
He looked at her with distaste. Did he really hate her that much? Did he still think she was a dirty Mudblood?
“As long as you don’t annoy me with your talking. I don’t usually talk much, but that’s not a fucking invitation for me to listen, got it?” he demanded.
Oh. He was annoyed because he was a grumpy hermit, she realised with a start. She supposed she could spend time with a grouch instead of a blood supremacist.
They walked in silence, the sound of their shuffling feet on the forest floor the only thing echoing in the semi-darkness.
But she could never hold in her words—curiosity always drove her tongue into action.
“So, what are you running away from?” she asked.
“What did I fucking say, Granger?” he snapped.
“Well, if we’re going to be travel buddies, we should at least get along,” she suggested.
“Salazar’s beard, why didn’t they just kill me and be done with it? Now I’m stuck with Miss Busybody-with-Feelings,” he said sarcastically.
“All those words that just came out of your mouth, and you could’ve answered my simple question,” she huffed.
They walked further in silence.
“If you must know,” he said after about an hour, “I’m running away from helplessness. I never want to be at the mercy of another again. Now, no more questions.”
Too late now, Malfoy. Now she wanted to know everything.
Draco couldn’t believe he was stuck in the wilderness with none other than the stuck-up know-it-all he’d found irritating for most of his young life.
The alternative was being alone in this spookily dark enchanted forest, plagued by shadows of unknown creatures lurking and watching.
Hmm. He probably preferred the solitude. Or perhaps being mauled by werewolves. Or kidnapped by fairies.
Because Granger wouldn’t bloody stop talking. He’d already told her that just because he was quiet, it wasn’t an invitation for her to start yapping. Honestly, the insufferable girl truly loved the sound of her own voice.
What was worse was that she kept talking about her torture at the hands of his deranged aunt—an incident he hoped someone would Obliviate from his mind.
Sure, he hated her, but he had something called a heart. It had been harrowing to witness such a sickening act and do nothing.
But that didn’t mean he wanted to be her bloody mind healer.
He was so absorbed in his ire-filled internal monologue that he didn’t notice where he stepped.
“Aaaah!”
Her scream snapped him into alertness.
Unfortunately, they both tumbled into the hole on the forest floor, landing unceremoniously at the bottom like a sack of potatoes.
Fuck. What the hell was this? he thought, rubbing his sore backside.
Looking up at the mouth of the hole, the starry sky mocking him, he realised with a sinking heart that it was too high to climb out.
For Salazar’s sake. As if walking in the forest with Granger wasn’t bad enough, now he was stuck in a sinkhole with her.
Oh. Granger.
He realised belatedly that she wasn’t talking a mile a minute.
“Granger? Are you all right?”
No reply. His jaw ticked with annoyance.
“Lumos,” he muttered.
The light from his wand illuminated her shape, lying on the floor of the sinkhole, unmoving.
An uncomfortable feeling of dread clawed at his chest as he approached her.
“Granger,” he called out again. He examined her dirt-streaked face—eyes closed, mouth wide open—and shook her shoulders. Nothing.
“Oi! Wake up!” The last thing he wanted was to be trapped with a fucking corpse.
He knelt down near her head and lifted it. Perhaps she’d knocked herself unconscious during the fall. Sure enough, there was blood on the back of her scalp, matting her hair. Holding his wand closer, he saw that her head had hit a large tree root.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He turned her onto her side and assessed the damage. He couldn’t see the wound—there was too much hair.
Sorry, Granger. Hope you aren’t too partial to your hair.
He shaved the bloodied area to expose the wound. After cleaning it, he charmed it closed, her skin pulling together. Unfortunately, now she had a bald spot. He hoped she wouldn’t kill him for it.
With nothing else to do but wait for daylight, he sat back against the wall of the deep cavern, her head resting on his lap, and sighed.
She winced as she woke, the back of her head throbbing like someone was bludgeoning her with a hammer. Her eyes felt as though they were going to pop out of her skull. Gingerly, she touched the area and discovered a bald spot and her skin sticky with blood. She sat up quickly, eyes darting around in the dark, surveying the situation. She was in some kind of cave or hole—only the stars overhead were visible.
The sudden movement made her dizzy, nausea rising in her throat. She retched and vomited.
“Ugh, gross,” a familiar voice muttered in the dark.
“Malfoy?” she asked inanely, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“No, I’m an evil spirit whose wrath you invited by vomiting all over me,” he said. “Evanesco.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Apparently, the spell doesn’t remove the lingering smell,” he grumbled.
“What happened?” she asked, ignoring his complaints.
“We fell into a hole. You bumped your head and went unconscious,” he explained.
“Did you heal me?” she asked.
“No, it was the wood nymphs,” he drawled.
“Can’t you just answer a simple question?” she snapped.
“Why would you ask questions you already know the answer to?” he shot back. “Who else is here? Just us in this Merlin-forsaken forest.”
“Uhh… well… um—thanks,” she muttered.
“Well, I didn’t want to spend the night with a corpse,” he replied.
“How long was I out?”
“No clue. Probably a few hours,” he said. “We should sleep until daylight. Nothing we can do right now.”
For the first time in her life, she agreed with him.
“Call the Daily Prophet! ” he suddenly exclaimed. “Granger is rendered speechless!”
“Shut up, Malfoy. You’re such an arse,” she grumbled.
“I did savour those hours of silence when you were knocked out. A bit of relaxation during our wilderness getaway,” he said.
An uncontrollable urge to laugh bubbled inside her.
Malfoy, funny? Seriously, Hermione? Had she hit her head that hard?
She laughed anyway, her guffaws escaping hysterically, echoing in the silent forest.
“Merlin, you’ve gone raving mad,” he said.
“Must be the head injury,” she said, once her laughter died down. “I’m agreeing with you and finding you funny. That’s a more worthy headline, I reckon.”
“I was always funny,” he said, sounding defensive. “You were just too up your arse to appreciate it.”
“You were being funny all those times you terrorised us?” she asked incredulously.
“Your dunderhead, attention-seeking friends deserved all my insults,” he admitted.
“Just my friends?” she pressed.
“Just get some sleep, Granger. This isn’t a heart-to-heart.”
Well. That was curious.
The smell of vomit was giving Draco a headache. It was just his luck that she’d hurled all over him after waking up from her injuries.
Plus, he’d babbled something about Scarface and Weasel, and she’d picked up on his omission of her own name. At this rate, he’d be baring his most deep-seated secrets by morning if he continued to engage with her. She just wouldn’t bloody let things go—always wanting to get to the bottom of things, even when it would do her no good.
“Why did you pick on me, anyway?” she asked.
Despite his earlier resolve, he felt compelled to defend his younger self’s life choices.
“You started it,” he huffed.
“What?” she said in disbelief. “Me? Bully you?”
“If I may quote a certain bushy-haired girl in second year— ahem —‘At least no one in Gryffindor had to buy their way into the team.’ Said it all self-righteously too.”
“Well, it was true, wasn’t it?” she remarked, just as self-righteously.
“How would you know? Do you even play Quidditch? Do you even know what skills a player needs to make the team?” he challenged.
“Did you see money exchange hands between me and Snape or Marcus Flint?” he continued, unable to stop now. “Or, Merlin forbid, were you just being a judgemental cow?”
“You were a rich prick, even at that age,” she snapped.
“See? Judgemental cow,” he repeated.
“Was not,” she protested. “Am not.”
“What did I ever do to you before that?” Draco asked. “You didn’t even know me. You still don’t. Come on, don’t be shy. Tell me what you think of me.” A taunt.
“You’re an arrogant, self-absorbed, mean coward whose whole personality is your pure-blood background and money,” she said, her voice rising. “You don’t have any friends because nobody would tolerate your whiny, dramatic attitude and disdain for others.”
“Got it off your chest now, Granger?” he asked, nonchalantly and unperturbed.
She was quiet.
“Good,” he said. “Finally got you to shut up. Now, for fuck’s sake, go to sleep and stop bothering me.”
He wasn’t sure where he was heading after they got out of this sinkhole, but he couldn’t wait for it to be as far away from her as magically possible.
Hang on.
They weren’t on Hogwarts grounds anymore. They could bloody Apparate out of here. Why was he still sitting around?! How dumb was he? Did he just stick around because she was unconscious?
“Well, if your head’s all fine, I’ll just be off then. Goodbye, Granger,” he said, standing up.
“Wait!!” she cried. “Where are you going?”
“Apparating home. Why do you care?” he asked. “I’m a whiny bastard, remember?”
He turned to Apparate, closing his eyes and focusing on Malfoy Manor as his destination. Unfortunately, as he felt the familiar compression of teleportation, he realised—too late—that something was tugging at him. Landing unsteadily in the foyer of Malfoy Manor, he looked down.
Granger had latched onto his foot.
Damn it.
She was back here—the place she’d never wanted to set foot in again. But she hadn’t wanted to be alone in a sinkhole in the Forbidden Forest either. Hermione had grabbed Malfoy’s leg before he Apparated and managed to bring herself with him. He looked livid about it.
Shaking his leg to make her let go, he glared at her. But she was too tired and sleepy to care and continued lying on the marble floor of the foyer.
“Are you all right?” he asked, suddenly aware of how she looked under proper lighting.
“Dizzy,” she managed.
“You’re not going to vomit again, are you?” he demanded.
When she didn’t respond, he called out, “Vinny!” and a soft pop signalled the arrival of a cute house-elf.
“Master Draco! You’re back!” the elf gushed, hugging him.
“We have a guest. Can you bring her to the guest room and tend to her head wound?” he ordered.
What an arse, ordering the little elf about.
“Of course!” said Vinny, seemingly happy.
“No, it’s okay, Vinny. I don’t believe in mistreating elves for wizards’ whims,” said Hermione firmly.
“Is she wrong in the head, Master Draco?” Vinny asked, peering at Hermione.
Hermione rolled her eyes at the apparent subjugation.
“No, just an ignorant, judgemental nuisance,” Malfoy replied. “Still, she’s hurt. Will you help her?”
“All right, if she wants,” Vinny said, eyeing Hermione suspiciously.
“Thanks, Vinny. You’re the best. I’ll be in my room,” Malfoy said before Apparating away.
Vinny gave Hermione a strange look and asked, “Why do you say Master Draco mistreats me?”
“The fact that you call him ‘Master’ is already a red flag, Vinny. You don’t have to do as he orders you, you know,” Hermione said.
“You don’t call people Mister, Missus, and Master? That’s a bit rude, isn’t it?” the elf asked, frowning.
Well, come to think of it, Muggles did have honorary titles. Muggle boys were called ‘Master’ on formal documents, weren’t they?
“Oh, you mean he’s ‘Master Draco,’ not master like he’s your slave owner or something?” Hermione prodded.
“What’s a slave?” Vinny asked earnestly.
Hermione sighed. Her dizziness was really too much for her to launch into elf liberation rights.
“Never mind. Thanks, but I can take care of myself,” she said.
“Are you averse to asking for help?” the elf asked.
“Well, yes—if an unpaid, mistreated elf is being ordered to help me,” Hermione replied.
“You’re odd,” said Vinny.
Ah, great. Even Malfoy’s elves were snarky.
Will this torture never end?
Draco was in the midst of putting on his clothes after thoroughly washing away the grime, dirt and vomit, when Vinny appeared, complaining that Granger was being rude to her.
“Why? What’d she say?” asked Draco, fixing his awful hair.
“She keeps saying she doesn’t want me to help her—saying I should free myself ‘from the clutches of servitude,’ whatever that means,” grumbled the elf.
Draco groaned internally, recalling Granger’s self-righteous crusade for elven welfare back in second year.
“She’s just not familiar with our ways, Vinny. Nothing personal, okay?” he soothed.
“How’s she not familiar? She’s a witch, isn’t she?” asked Vinny indignantly.
“She’s muggleborn, and Dobby told her friend all sorts of stories about us,” he explained.
“Dobby was always dramatic,” Vinny muttered, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah, well, she’s got it in her mind that elves are the Wizarding World’s equivalent of slaves,” he said. When her face scrunched up in confusion, he added, “Like we own you and force you to work for us.”
“Well, I never!” said Vinny, looking highly offended.
Draco sighed. “I’ll deal with her. Could you get some of Mother’s clothes and bring them to me? And we might have to make a quick escape if the Dark Lord wins this stupid war and returns here. So be ready with supplies.”
“Right away, Master Draco!” said the elf before Disapparating and returning promptly with a bundle of Narcissa’s clothes. Then, she vanished again.
Draco rubbed his face in frustration before Apparating to the foyer. Granger was still lying on the floor.
“Why are you so rude to Vinny?” he demanded. “She’s only helping. Stop being an ignorant arsehole.”
“I wasn’t being rude!” she retorted.
“If you bothered to remove your head out of your arse, you’d know that refusing help from an elf is offensive!” he yelled.
“You’re just saying that to justify slavery!”
“For fuck’s sake! How many elves have you interviewed in your damned life? Apart from Dobby? Huh?” he shouted. “You think you know everything, but you don’t. Have some humility to own up to that, for Merlin’s sake!”
“They don’t know they’re being enslaved! They don’t know any better!” she argued.
Draco rubbed his temples in exasperation.
“Because the great Hermione Granger knows what’s best for everyone—despite thousands of years of elven traditions,” he said sarcastically. “Right, well, suit yourself. Vinny and I are escaping in case Death Eaters return, so you can do whatever the hell you want.”
He left without another word.
What was she doing?! Arguing with Draco Malfoy in his home about house-elf welfare at a time like this? He’d begrudgingly brought her along, wanted his elf to help her, and—from the bundle of clothes on the floor—she figured he’d even given her some fresh ones to change into.
Hermione never did know how to sort her priorities. Expulsion had seemed worse than death back when she was in First Year. But she was bloody eighteen, for fuck’s sake, still stuck with the same immature behaviours. His comment about Death Eaters returning had finally jolted her from her self-righteous rant.
Why had she left Harry and Ron? Why didn’t she turn back when she ended up in the Forbidden Forest? They were likely fighting for their lives back at Hogwarts. How on earth had she ended up here, running away?
Malfoy was a coward—at least that explained his actions—but Hermione was no bloody coward. She’d just change clothes and Apparate back to Hogsmeade to rejoin the fight, she decided.
A thought came to her unbidden: where was Malfoy going to escape to? Not that it was any of her business. And why did she even care what he did?! It was bloody Malfoy! A few kind gestures were not enough to forgive years of verbal altercations.
She got up from the floor, gave herself a good Scourgify, and changed into the clean clothes that Malfoy had dumped onto the floor before dramatically storming off. Considering that his mother was the only female in the house, they clearly belonged to Narcissa Malfoy.
She wondered how Narcissa would feel about a dirty Mudblood wearing her clothes. Hermione smoothed the front of the black dress with a twisted sense of satisfaction. With that comforting imagery, she Apparated to Hogsmeade, landing unsteadily on the ground and triggering the Caterwauling Charm once more.
Had she forgotten that she was now alone and not part of a trio? She suddenly realised how foolish she’d been, Apparating into hostile territory in the middle of a battle.
Hermione, you idiot.
Too late—the Death Eaters had spotted her and were now approaching, surrounding her on all four sides. Sure, she considered herself proficient in duelling, but—four grown wizards, out for blood—this was beyond her.
She thought of Vinny, who’d chided her for not accepting help.
It was her arrogance that had brought her into this situation. Thinking she could do everything herself. That she was indispensable to the war effort. As if the others couldn’t win without her. That she knew better than Draco Malfoy and his elf. That she—
But her spiralling thoughts, which were to be her final moments, were interrupted by a loud crack of Apparition, a rough grab from behind, and the disorienting pull of side-Apparition to an unknown destination.
What the hell?!
She landed on the floor in a heap, looking up at the angry face of Malfoy’s house-elf.
“Good thing you remembered my name, hmm?” Vinny said, arms on her waist.
“W-what? Did I call you?” Hermione asked, confused.
“Uhh—yes,” said Vinny.
“A little ‘thank you’ might be in order,” came a sarcastic voice from somewhere in the room.
Ah, great. She was back with the massive git.
“Thank you, Vinny,” said Hermione, despite not wanting to acknowledge that Malfoy was actually telling her how to behave.
“Realised you made the wrong decision, did you?” drawled the annoying voice.
“Shut up, Malfoy.”
“Where the hell am I?” Granger asked from the floor.
Draco got up from his chair, letting out a groan of disgust but feeling compelled to reply.
“A safe house. It was an escape plan my mother had in case I managed to find my way out of my untenable situation,” he said, expecting her outburst in 3… 2… 1…
“ESCAPE?!” she exclaimed, sitting up now. “But I can’t be here. I have to help the others.”
“How did that work out for you?” Draco said tersely.
“She was about to be Avada-ed or captured in three seconds by four Death Eaters,” Vinny piped up.
“I would’ve fought to the death!” Granger declared with that stupid ‘courage’ of hers as she stood up.
“Glory to Gryffindor!” Draco said sarcastically. “Don’t know what use you’d be to anyone if you’re dead. Just another dead nobody.”
“Better to die fighting than survive like a coward,” she countered, looking down her nose at him. The absolute gall of the bitch.
Draco stood up to his full height and towered over her.
“Don’t speak to me about cowardice until you’ve looked the Dark Lord in the eye and not cowered,” he hissed. “You know nothing of the suffering I’ve endured. You think you know everything, but you don’t. Maybe get your head out of your arse for once and see things from others’ perspectives.”
“You know nothing of the suffering I have endured!” she argued back, lifting her sleeve to expose her Mudblood scar.
“Haven’t I?!” he shouted, lifting his own sleeve to reveal his Dark Mark. “Did you think this was a fucking party where we drew on each other’s arms? I never chose this!”
“You didn’t?” she said, sounding surprised.
Draco was taken aback at her sudden change in tone. Talking to her was like avoiding the Whomping Willow, darting here and there.
“Did you choose to have Mudblood carved on yours?! Un-fucking-believable,” he said, rubbing his face.
He’d had enough. She would drive him absolutely mental the longer she was around him.
“Vinny? Will you take her back to wherever she wanted to become martyred?” he asked his elf.
Vinny frowned. “She must ask me herself.”
They both looked at Granger, waiting for her response. She looked apprehensive, and—dare he say it—scared.
She plopped herself down onto the floor with a defeated sigh.
“I’m a poor excuse for a Gryffindor. I don’t actually want to die in vain,” she admitted. “Or in a blaze of glory. I don’t want to die. Period.”
“I’ve barely lived my life. There are places I want to see! Things to do! Books to read!” she continued angrily.
Draco hid a wry grin. Of course, the swot would lament death as a reason for unread books.
“Where the fuck are all the adults in the Wizarding World?!” she ranted. “Why are inexperienced schoolchildren fighting to the death?! In the Muggle world, this would be a war crime! A sure massacre!”
Draco had wondered the same thing. After all, he had been asked to be a bloody assassin at sixteen.
“Anyway,” she said, calming down. “I’ve had enough. I think I’ve sacrificed too much for this war. I— I was supposed to be in Slytherin, you know. But the Hat said I was Muggleborn and probably wouldn’t enjoy it there.”
“I suppose, deep down inside, I do value self-preservation,” she concluded.
Draco was speechless for once in his life, lacking any witty retort or snarky comeback. He sat down in front of her on the floor, and they remained in silence for what felt like forever.
Well, it was official. She was a Slytherin-esque coward, holed up in a safe house with Draco sodding Malfoy, sitting on a chair in the spartanly furnished living room.
He was tending to her matted hair and head wound, since she had refused his elf’s ministrations.
“It looks fine,” he remarked. “I attached the skin back together in the forest, and there doesn’t seem to be any dirt stuck in the wound now. Just in your hair. You should take a shower.”
“How are you competent at healing spells, anyway?” she demanded, unable to contain her curiosity.
He straightened up from bending over her head and stepped back.
“Why? Is it so inconceivable that I could be good at anything, Granger?” he replied, his lips pursed.
“I didn’t say that,” she told him defensively. “I was merely wondering how you knew healer-level spells, that’s all. Stop being so bloody sensitive.”
“Your insufferable tone doesn’t help,” he pointed out.
“Is arguing and talking in circles going to be our modus operandi? Why can’t you just answer a simple question?” she grumbled.
He sighed deeply, likely in resignation, rubbing his face with his hand before raking it through his hair.
“When the Dark Lord lived in our house, he brought the Death Eaters with him. They weren’t kind to our elves,” Malfoy explained, almost hesitant.
“So you learned to heal them?” she said, catching on to the situation.
He merely shrugged noncommittally.
“They left anyway,” he said. “Only Vinny remained. She’s been with me since I was born and couldn’t bear to abandon me.”
Hermione cast a glance at the little elf sitting in the armchair, looking wistfully out of the window, her legs dangling over the edge of the seat. She could hardly believe that a house elf would be loyal to Malfoy—of all people—but she wasn’t one to doubt things when they occurred before her very eyes.
“Uhmm, well—thanks for healing me,” she said awkwardly.
“You’re welcome,” he replied before turning away.
“I know this is weird, but I’d like to start over with you, if that’s possible?” she proposed.
He stopped in his tracks. “What do you mean?” His eyebrows rose in question.
Determined, she cleared her throat. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Hermione Granger—you can call me Hermione,” she said in the most formal tone she could muster.
Thankfully, he was bright enough to catch on to her idea.
“Nice to meet you, Hermione,” he replied with a little bow. “I’m Malfoy—Draco Malfoy.”
She stifled a laugh at his stiff and proper demeanour.
“Can I call you ‘Draco,’ then?” she asked.
“You can call me whatever you wish,” he said, almost gallantly.
“Uhm—okay,” she stammered, realising for the first time that without his trademark haughty sneer, he wasn’t all that displeasing to look at.
For some daft reason, her mind wondered how he would look if he actually smiled. But then, she hadn’t smiled for a long time either. There had been nothing to smile about. She was an orphan now, having irrevocably taken away her parents’ memories of her existence. Her friends were probably dead—what chance did they have against Voldemort anyway? They were being unrealistic. She had sacrificed her parents for nothing. Typical Gryffindor idealism, she scoffed internally.
“I’ll take that shower now. Could you show me the bathroom?” she asked politely.
“Third door on the left of the hallway,” he said.
She nodded and made her way down the dimly lit corridor to the bathroom. It would be dawn soon, she reckoned, as she peered out of the small window at the dark sky. It had been a long night, and she hoped daylight would come soon. She was tired of the dark.
Stripping off Narcissa Malfoy’s dress carefully so she could put it back on afterwards, she stepped into the stream of hot water falling from the showerhead.
It felt like heaven.
She hadn’t bathed in weeks—being on the run in the wilderness didn’t offer many opportunities for little comforts such as basic hygiene, did it? The Scourgify spell was never as effective as actual washing with soap and water.
She scrubbed the grime and soil out of her hair three times with shampoo, her fingers carefully feeling for the bald spot on the back of her head where Draco had ‘shaved’ to treat her wound. She washed every part of her body, covered in sweat, dirt, and Godric-knows-what.
Would she have a little time for self-care?
She needed to let out a little steam, didn’t she? And now, she had time and privacy, without any threats of being killed or abducted looming over her. Oddly, she hadn’t felt safe for a long time, but now, she found security in a forsaken shack with her former enemy. He wasn’t really an enemy, was he? More like an intolerable nuisance. Did her thoughts while she was touching herself down there really have to be about him?
She groaned at her lapse in judgement.
But it was too late—her fingers were already between her legs.
She deserved this.
Her teeth gritted with determination as she quickened the pace of her fingers. She gasped as pleasure overwhelmed her, her walls fluttering, heartbeat pounding.
After several moments, she came back down to Earth, feeling relaxed and unburdened. She continued washing herself, relishing the blissful aftermath. She refused to dwell on whose face had flashed across her mind when she reached her long-deprived pleasure.
It was too dangerous a thought.
He was fucking exhausted.
He’d had the oddest exchange with Granger— Hermione —where she had introduced herself as if they’d just met for the first time. He had understood immediately that it was a peace offering.
He had taken it.
After all, they were trapped here together for the foreseeable future, and even he preferred peace and quiet over endless, pointless bickering. He sighed like an old man approaching eighty instead of someone who would soon turn eighteen.
After Hermione left for her shower, he walked around the safe house, ensuring the wards were secure. There was no Floo connection. He hadn’t informed his ‘houseguest’ of their location, but he knew she would recognise it once the sun rose.
It was the furthest place his mother had thought of when she chose this hideout. After teaching him the coordinates, she had asked him to Obliviate the memory from her mind in case the Dark Lord ever pried it out of her. No one knew where he was now except for the people in this house. He was, for all intents and purposes, missing and presumed dead.
Exactly as he wanted.
He’d had enough of the Wizarding World. Now, he was a hermit—and happily so—living in self-imposed exile. Well, not entirely solitary. Vinny was here. And Hermione.
Merlin’s beard, what were the odds of this bizarre turn of events?
Shaking his head at the absurdity of it all, he walked toward the end of the hallway to claim a room for himself. As he passed the bathroom, a muffled moan reached his ears from behind the closed door. Alarmed, he almost knocked—until he belatedly realised that the sound wasn’t pained.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. She was getting herself off.
He felt utterly ridiculous. Now very glad he hadn’t knocked, he swiftly walked past, determined to erase the moment from his mind. Reaching the so-called bedroom, he exhaled sharply.
There was only one bed.
A single fucking bed.
This shack had only two rooms—one for him, the other surely Vinny’s. He couldn’t very well make his elf share with Hermione, nor could he ask Hermione to share with Vinny.
“Vinny!” he called. She appeared instantly by his side.
“Yes, Master Draco?”
“Uh... how do you suggest we organise the sleeping arrangements?”
“I’m not sharing with her,” Vinny said petulantly, rolling her eyes. “She thinks I’m a slave!”
“I can’t share with her either! That would be highly inappropriate,” he protested. “Even if I Gemini the bed.”
“We can move her bed to the living room?” Vinny suggested.
“Ugh, we can’t do that. She’s a witch. She needs privacy,” he argued, thinking of his untimely stroll past the bathroom just now.
“Then you sleep in the living room,” Vinny said, her tone brooking no argument.
He sighed. “Very well,” he capitulated. “I’ll Gemini the bed. Help me move it.”
With their task complete, his new bed was set up in the living room, next to a window overlooking the eastern side of the house.
At least the sun would wake him up every morning. Better than the sound of Nagini’s hissing.
Hermione examined her conscience for any guilt about escaping the war zone—and found none.
Her only regret was leaving her best friends behind, not knowing their fates. She reckoned—or hoped —that they, too, were wondering what had happened to her amidst the chaos of battle.
They had destroyed Ravenclaw’s Diadem in the Fiendfyre that claimed Crabbe’s life. Now, only the snake and Harry himself remained.
She had already suspected that her best friend was a Horcrux—it wasn’t difficult to figure out. His constant mind connection with Voldemort, the way their wand cores had matched—they were all clues. Voldemort had ‘died’ when he tried to kill Harry as a baby, hadn’t he? His soul must have attached itself to baby Harry. It was the only logical conclusion. But she hadn’t wanted to tell Harry her hypothesis in case she was wrong.
In her fury and folly, she had chased after Draco when he left the Room of Requirement, intending to confront him for trying to abduct Harry—just as she had punched him in the face over Buckbeak back in Third Year. But the menace had walked too fast, and she had struggled to keep up. He had seemed to be escaping towards the Forbidden Forest. She hadn’t realised, in her tunnel vision, that a pair of Death Eaters had followed her.
“Malfoy! You bloody coward!” she had bellowed at his retreating back, giving up on catching him.
He had stopped in his tracks and turned to regard her with disdain. To her surprise, he had strode towards her ominously, brandishing his wand. She had braced herself, standing in a defensive stance, ready for an attack—until he suddenly hurled two Stupefy spells in quick succession.
Not at her.
A quick turn of her head had revealed the approaching Death Eaters, previously silent and unnoticed—now lying immobilised on the ground not far behind her.
Hermione reluctantly acknowledged now that it had been a close call, and that the sneering arsehole Draco Malfoy, who had tormented her all these years, had saved her life. The second time she was outnumbered by Death Eaters, it was his elf who had rescued her. She now owed them both.
She recalled their conversation in the sinkhole, where he’d accused her of initiating their years-long feud. She admitted that what he said carried merit, she had assumed the worst of him—but why? Because he was an irritating rich boy? Because he’d had it in for Harry and Ron?
When he had called her a ‘Mudblood’, it didn’t even make her feel anything. The word meant nothing to her. It was only later that she learned the meaning and implications of the word, but even then, she was unperturbed. It had been Ron who’d been excessively offended on her behalf.
All she wanted to do was study hard and learn to become a powerful witch. Was that really too much to ask? Instead, ever since first year she’d been dragged into sticky situations, one after the other. If she was honest, she resented it now.
“Granger!” yelled Draco’s voice from somewhere in the shack. They had given her a room where she’d spent a few hours napping. The rising sun had roused her from her sleep and she then had begun mulling over her past.
She rose out of bed and Looked out of the window, immediately recognising where she was—the White Cliffs of Dover. Her window faced the coast, she could already see the coast of France from where she stood.
“Yes?!” she yelled back, opening her door.
“Dinner, or breakfast, or whatever meal it is,” he called out.
She forgot that she hadn’t eaten for an entire day. The last thing she ate were chips swiped from a muggle restaurant—leftovers, of course. She didn’t steal people’s food.
Patting her rumbling tummy, she headed towards the living room, hoping for some decent food for months.
They ate their meal in silence, Draco unsure if he even wanted to speak. He was weary of everything.
It was a simple meal of egg on toast, but he relished it as if it were fine dining. His appetite had returned when it had once been absent. He could never stomach anything when the Dark Lord was in his house, Voldemort’s grotesque, noseless face disgusted and horrified Draco in equal measure.
He was glad to have escaped his tormented existence in his own home. He would never return to Malfoy Manor, it carried too many traumatic memories he wished someone would Obliviate from his mind. His branding with the Dark Mark, the gruesome death of Professor Burbage, the constant state of fear his father had been in, and Granger’s torture at the hands of Bellatrix.
He suddenly wondered if Granger could Obliviate him.
“Do you know how to remove memories?” he blurted out.
She looked at him in shock before hurriedly turning her expression neutral.
“Yes—,” she began slowly. “I think so.”
“Have you done it before?” he probed.
He saw her hesitate as if she was reluctant to confess her wrongdoing.
“Have you done it before?” she demanded instead.
He merely nodded. “My mother. I removed her memories of this place.”
“Just this place?” she asked, curiosity evident in her voice. “What about your existence?”
“Obliviation can be done with precision,” he explained. “If you use Legilimency along with it.”
“Oh, like using a scalpel versus a blunt object,” she mused.
He furrowed his brow at the word scalpel but assumed it was some sort of sharp instrument.
“I suppose,” he replied, pretending to understand what she meant.
“Why did you ask if I’d ever Obliviated someone?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Brightest witch of her age, bla-dee-daa—surely you’ve mastered every spell,” he huffed.
“No, tell me the real reason you asked,” she repeated firmly.
After briefly weighing the pros and cons, he admitted, “I was wondering if it was possible to remove certain traumatic memories from my own mind. You know—like the image of You-Know-Who. I don’t fancy seeing his face when I sleep.”
Voldemort’s name was under the Taboo, so he wasn’t about to risk saying it. He hoped Hermione wasn’t as reckless as Scarface.
“Can we do that?” she asked, intrigued.
“Well, theoretically, yes—if you also know Legilimency,” he said. “You enter someone’s mind and ‘cut out’ the specific memory, leaving the rest untouched.”
“But I’m not a Legilimens,” she said, disappointment creeping into her tone.
Then, belatedly, she realised what he had implied but not said.
“But you are,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “That’s how you Obliviated your mother.”
“Yes. She still wanted to remember she had a son—I couldn’t deny her that,” he admitted, his voice tinged with melancholy.
“I—I Obliviated my parents,” she blurted out suddenly. “But I removed all their memories of me.”
“Like you never existed,” he said quietly.
“Like I never existed,” she echoed, her voice cracking, her eyes hollow. “I was a Bludger, not a scalpel.”
“I’m sorry,” he said simply.
“Thanks,” she replied, her voice unusually quiet.
They ate in silence until she couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Sorry for what, Malfoy? My current orphan status, or our entire history together?” she demanded.
“Both,” he said, not wanting to elaborate. He was never one for touchy-feely conversations—just the thought made him shudder.
“Apologising means making amends,” she said in her usual bossy tone.
“I thought saving your life three times would suffice,” he said pointedly. “Isn’t that enough?”
“What do you mean three times?” she countered. “I only recall once.”
“Let’s see—the Quidditch World Cup, circa 1993? 1994? And twice, just yesterday,” he said, taking a bite of his toast as if it were the most mundane conversation in the world.
“The last one was Vinny, not you,” she argued.
He shrugged. He’d figured out how to stop Granger from getting worked up—just don’t engage.
“Anyway, to make up for everything nasty you’ve said to me and done to us, I want you to Obliviate me. Specifically, my memories of Bellatrix,” she said.
He raised a brow in disbelief. “Have you actually thought that through?” he asked.
“Well, no, it just occurred to me,” she admitted.
“Typical Gryffindor recklessness,” he scoffed. “One, how will you explain that scar on your arm if the memories are gone? Two, you’d have to let me into your mind. I’d know all your secrets. Three, you’d have to trust me completely—and I doubt that very much.”
For once, she was speechless. Draco went back to drinking his tea.
“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with your friends?” he asked as she rose from her chair to clear the table.
She was struck dumb yet again—an alarmingly frequent occurrence lately. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure what had compelled her to stay in this safehouse.
Where was her Gryffindor courage? Her loyalty to her friends? Her desire to vanquish evil? Where had her idealism gone? Why was she so bloody selfish now? She’d thrown the word coward at Draco so freely, yet here she was—a deserter. At least he had deserted the evil side. She had abandoned the side of light, her friends, her surrogate family.
The guilt she had searched for the night before crept into her heart. But… she had felt comfort for the first time in months. Safety. Security. Privacy. Hot water. A soft bed. Food. Was it so terrible to want that?
“Damn,” she muttered under her breath. Of all people, Draco Malfoy was the one pricking her conscience.
“You should go back,” he said. “You’ll never forgive yourself for staying here. You can ask Vinny to take you to the edge of Hogwarts’ wards, near the Black Lake.”
“Will you Obliviate me?” she pressed, desperate to have Bellatrix erased from her mind.
“I have to, don’t I? You know where I am,” he said blandly.
She considered it. Oddly, she did trust him not to turn her into a mindless vegetable.
“Remove Bellatrix's torture from my memories,” she said finally, “and the location of this place.”
“What about your scar?” he asked. “Won’t you wonder how it got there?”
“I’m sure my friends will tell me, but at least I won’t feel it. The pain, the flashbacks—they’ll be gone. It’ll be as if I were listening to a story someone else being tortured, not me.”
“Very well,” Draco said, conceding. “As recompense for everything I’ve done… and everything I didn’t do. Like preventing said torture.”
She eyed him suspiciously, unsure why he was being so accommodating.
“Why did you even help me?” she asked. “You could’ve let me die back at Hogwarts.”
“I’m not a murderer. Just despicable,” he said dryly. “Apparently, I’m also an arrogant, self-absorbed, mean coward whose whole personality is my pureblood background and money. And I don’t have any friends because nobody would tolerate my whiny, dramatic attitude and disdain for others.”
She gaped at his perfect recollection of her rant from the night before—word for word. A twinge of guilt twisted in her gut. She hadn’t even thought about what she’d said, yet he had remembered all of it.
“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I didn’t mean—”
“You meant it,” he cut in, summoning his elf and whispering instructions. Vinny nodded in agreement, shooting Hermione a look of disapproval.
The elf moved to stand beside her, waiting.
“Ready, Granger?” Draco asked, his tone formal.
She gave her harebrained scheme one last moment of consideration—then nodded. Yes. She would be free of Bellatrix. She would return to her friends and help win the war. This had been nothing more than a moment’s respite.
She barely felt Draco enter her mind. A tickle. A featherlight brush.
And suddenly, she was standing at the edge of the Black Lake. Alone.
“Well, she’s gone,” Draco said unnecessarily.
Vinny only shrugged. “She was an odd duck, Master Draco. Didn’t know what she wanted,” she said.
“Neither did I, until I’d had enough,” he admitted. “Anyway, it’s just us now, Vinny. What should we do?”
His elf smiled. “First of all, I’m going to decorate this house—make it feel like a home. And you should go explore the nearby town and get us supplies,” she ordered, pointing her long, thin finger at him.
“Alright.” He promptly transfigured his features into a generic dark-haired, bearded man. He could hardly go into town with his Malfoy-platinum locks, could he?
“I’ll be a bit longer to explore. Will you be alright?” he asked, preparing to leave.
“Of course. I’m seventy years old, not an invalid,” she said, shooing him away. “Enjoy your freedom.”
Freedom.
What a concept.
He was finally free. Well, almost. The trauma still lingered in his mind, in his memories. And the Dark Mark served as a permanent reminder of the precarious situation he’d been in—wondering if his next breath, next words, next mistake would be his last. He had only ever wanted to survive. The Dark Lord might have seemed cool as a concept, especially when he was younger, but the reality was that Voldemort enslaved everyone. And Draco, more than most, knew what that meant. He had almost killed a wizard for him, but even at the last moment, he had faltered.
Granger was right. He was a coward.
But if cowardice meant living to see another sunrise, to have a peaceful existence, then he’d embrace it. He had never pretended to be honourable. But he had endured. He had endured so much. Surely, there must be a limit to how much suffering one had to face before they could say Enough and walk away.
Now that he had, what would he do? Live as an unsuspecting Muggle, he supposed. Get a boring job? Learn how to drive those contraptions with wheels? He wasn’t completely unfamiliar with Muggle things.
Granger would have known what to do. But she was gone.
He had removed her memories of Bellatrix’s torture and the location of the safehouse. But he had also seen what she had been fantasising about during her ‘session’ in the bathroom—and decided to remove that too. He didn’t need the complication of her trying to find him. It was just a proximity thing. She didn’t really find him attractive. He scoffed. Redheaded idiots were more her type.
But she didn’t consent to that being removed, his conscience piped up.
But it was a fantasy starring him—surely, he had the right to remove himself from her mind. Besides, she had Obliviated her own parents without their consent.
His conscience was clear, dammit.
Their brief peace treaty hadn’t been so bad, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be friends—Salazar forbid. It had been tormenting enough to enter her messy, loud, chaotic mind, where a hundred thoughts occurred at once. He would be overstimulated for days from the ‘noise.’
Exhaling loudly, he stepped out of the Disillusioned shack, basking in the early morning sun—ready to begin his new life.
She barely heard Shacklebolt’s speech over the rapid-fire thoughts coursing through her mind. She’d been stuck in a reverie since they had won the Battle of Hogwarts two weeks ago.
Now, they were celebrating their victory over Voldemort in a pompous ceremony at the Ministry of Magic atrium—as if the institution itself hadn’t denied the Dark Lord’s return or allowed his infiltration.
Regardless, she was relieved she hadn’t missed the pinnacle of the battle—Harry defeating Voldemort with his mastery of the Elder Wand. She had also been there in the aftermath, when he had snapped the wand in half and placed it in his pocket. It would now rest in Dumbledore’s tomb.
In the days that followed, people grieved their losses or dealt with the trauma of being on the run, of being tortured, of fighting in battle. But she was surprisingly well-adjusted.
It annoyed Ron most of all that she hadn’t been more excited about Molly killing Bellatrix Lestrange, which she found odd.
Who was Bellatrix to her, anyway? Why would the death of yet another Death Eater excite or upset her?
Ron had gestured to the word carved into her arm, as if that meant anything. She had run her fingers over the raised letters in her skin, but it didn’t hurt. She didn’t remember how the scar got there, only that she had demanded Draco Obliviate her. But she wasn’t about to tell Ron that.
The last thing she remembered before appearing at the Black Lake was sharing a meal with Draco. They had seemed to be on good terms, but her surroundings were blurred, indistinct. Sometimes, she wasn’t even sure if it was a memory or some deranged fantasy her mind had conjured after her head injury in the Forbidden Forest.
The last truly lucid memory she had was facing four Death Eaters in Hogsmeade, anticipating her death. Then, somehow, Vinny had transported her back to Draco, to some unknown place.
Was this disorienting feeling what her parents had experienced when she had Obliviated them? Or had they been left completely oblivious because they had known nothing of her to begin with? You can’t miss what you don’t know.
Draco’s parents had been sent to Azkaban, and people speculated about his whereabouts. By people, she meant the other Hogwarts students—former students, now. As far as the DMLE or the Order were concerned, they weren’t even interested. It was as if he were dead.
But Hermione knew he wasn’t.
She just couldn’t remember where he was.
But she remembered how he was—different.
He had saved her life, healed her wound, given her clothes and a temporary safe place to stay. He had even urged her to return to the battle, claiming she would regret it if she didn’t. And he had been right.
Finally, he had removed her memories at her request—probably painful ones—and he had done it with precision.
Maybe if he were a Muggle, he could be a neurosurgeon, she mused.
The idea of removing painful memories had been his—he had asked if she could do it to him, to erase Voldemort from his mind. But she wasn’t a Legilimens like him; she would have Obliviated his entire memory.
She felt a flicker of guilt. He had done so much for her, and she had never reciprocated. In fact, their last exchange had been him refusing to accept her apology for calling him all those names. She cringed at the memory—after years of resenting his rudeness, she had been just as bad.
Maybe I could learn Legilimency. Find him. Repay his kindness.
Now that the war was over, discovering his location wouldn’t actually put him in danger… right?